


And at once I knew I was not magnificent

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, F/M, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Series, Summer, Virginia, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam dreams of horses, and spends the summer in western Virginia with Dean. Alone, together.</p><p><span class="small">Brief mentions of Dean/OFCs and Sam/OFC. Sam is 16.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	And at once I knew I was not magnificent

That summer was the fourth summer in a row that Sam Winchester did not see the ocean.

He had just finished tenth grade in Emmaus, Pennsylvania, where it seemed like every kid had a summer vacation planned for the Jersey shore. Sitting on the curb outside the gymnasium, sucking on Freeze Pops, they wasted away the last day of school, because the last day was always a waste.

If Dad knew, he would have pulled them out of town already. But Sam had lied — he was good at lying; Dad taught him well. “One more test, Dad. Mr. Buckendorf says it’ll count toward our final grade. I need to go.” Dean had seen right through it, Sam could tell, but he’d said nothing, and Dad hadn’t been looking at Dean anyway. Instead, Sam put everything he’d ever learned from going undercover and a few tricks from acting in the fall play two schools back into convincing Dad, never breaking eye contact, and Dad bought it.

So Sam got one day’s reprieve: one day of postponed travel, during which he pretended he and his family would be leaving on a normal vacation like every normal kid at that normal little school.

Kevin — Sam’s lab partner and the closest thing he had to a best friend at that school — talked about a cabin in Cape May. It was at one of those church campgrounds where, Sam imagined, you spent more time sitting around singing “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands” than you did swimming and burning your feet on too-hot sand and all that stuff you were supposed to do at the beach. Rachel, the redhead Kevin had a crush on but could only talk to through Sam, would spend the entire three months at an old Victorian home her parents, both doctors, owned in Seaside Heights. She’d bragged about losing her virginity to a tattoo artist who worked on the boardwalk there the previous year, while Kevin turned bright red to the tips of his freckled ears. Kevin’s long eyelashes brushed against the lenses of his glasses and, not for the first time, he reminded Sam of his brother.

If Dean were four years younger, near-sighted and an honor student with a hard-on for microbiology and J.D. Salinger and Rachel Brousseau, he might be like Kevin. Except that Dean was more interested in the kinds of life forms scientists rejected, thought Holden Caulfield was a whiny brat, and he never hit on Rachel, despite all his crass innuendo that barely counted as innuendo about how her legs could wrap around you twice they were so long.

After that first time he came to pick up Sam from his Great Books Club meeting and saw Sam hanging around with Rachel and Kevin, Dean kept arriving later and later. Rachel waited with Sam, no matter how long Dean took to get there, because she thought Dean was hot, like every other girl. Sam figured he should be used to it by that point. But he resented Rachel for sticking around and giving Dean false ideas almost as much as he resented Dean’s lateness, or the way he elbowed Sam in the ribs once he got in the car, asking if Rachel had popped Sam’s cherry yet.

Dean was supposed to pick Sam up that last day too. It was only a half day, everyone out at noon. One final rush toward the buses, backpacks lighter and yearbooks clutched like talismans against summer separations. _Keep in touch_ , Kevin wrote like everyone else. Even though Sam assumed Kevin truly meant it, unlike most other kids, he knew it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t even tell Kevin that he wouldn’t be back next year. Unnecessary excuses and lies, Sam had had enough of them.

At 12:20, Dean still hadn’t shown up.

Rachel had her dad’s car, even though she only had her permit, hadn’t gotten her license yet. But she waited with Sam one last time, not offering him a ride, just waiting.

Although Sam had only turned 16 last month, he had been driving for three years, taught by his brother as soon as the first growth spurt stretched Sam’s limbs long enough to reach the pedals. Dad didn’t find out until seven months later, when Dean scratched the side panel with a shopping cart at a Walmart after hours. Sam took the fall for that one, talking over Dean’s protests, because he was the one who had heard some other kids bragging about this thing called shopping cart launching and mentioned it to Dean, and because he was the one who lost his grip on the shopping cart, half-hanging out of the passenger window while Dean accelerated through the darkened lot, letting the cart slip back and nick the car before it tumbled onto its side, wheels spinning around. Dean had laughed so loud, doing donuts in the lot when the shopping cart launch turned out to be a dud. Sam didn’t even mind all the jabs Dean threw at him about needing to do more push-ups to improve his upper body strength. Then Dad found the scratches before Dean could touch them up, and Sam stammered out a lie about driving. But the truth was, he could drive, and Dad thought that was a good thing. So he told Dean to give Sam more lessons, better lessons. And, even though Dean got scolded, it was less punishment than he would have received if Sam had shut up like Dean told him to.

It was that look on Dean’s face, not quite grateful and just a shade under confused, that Sam thought about as Dean finally arrived. He had never asked why Sam had taken the blame, just bumped his shoulder against Sam’s on the way past him, going for a _get out of my way_ move that came across as a rough-shod _gee, thanks_.

As Dean pulled up in front of that school for the last time, Sam noticed how Dean’s left arm, already darker than the right, hung out of the open window, short sleeve barely covering a new scar that ran down from his shoulder — the same shoulder that had bumped against Sam’s that night years ago. Slowing in front of Sam and Rachel, Dean banged his palm against the door of the car, saying, “Come on, kiddo. School’s out for summer.”

Sam didn’t look at Rachel, knew she wasn’t looking at him as he said, “See ya.”

“You need a ride too, sweetheart?” Dean asked Rachel as Sam slumped into the passenger seat.

Rachel leaned forward on one foot, hesitant. But Sam said, “No, she’s got a car.”

“Yeah,” she said, shooting Sam a dirty look while Dean only shrugged and stepped on the gas, hand lifting up in a half-hearted wave.

Dean had the decency to wait until the car was two feet away from Rachel before saying, “Seriously, Sam. Your last chance to hit that.”

Cranking down the window, Sam turned to glare at him. “Jesus, Dean.”

“I can go back, make something up.”

“No.” Sam slouched in the seat, resting his feet on his backpack and his knees against the dash.

“You sure?” Dean idled at the stop sign, front end of the car angled just enough that he could turn back into the school’s roundabout if Sam gave the word.

“She’s not interested in me,” Sam said. He pushed the lock down, pulled it up again, pushed it back down. “Just go.”

Dean grunted and pulled onto the road. Ten minutes later and five minutes from their rented trailer, he said, “Oh, I get it, that four-eyed kid was more your type.”

Sam kept his eyes on the landscape rolling by, suburbs fading into cornfields, looking like any other place in America — and yet he still tried to commit it to memory, one last time before the next place added to their catalogue. Detaching his fingers from the hem of his shorts, where he’d hung on without even realizing he’d been holding them so tight, he flipped Dean off. He still felt a thrill doing that, knowing Dad would give him hell. But Dean didn’t say anything, so Sam didn’t either.

It wasn’t really true.

Sam didn’t like Kevin. And he wasn’t going to keep in touch with him or be his best friend forever. And he and Dean weren’t going home to pack for a summer trip to the shore.

Dad said Harvey, Virginia. Sam was pretty sure that wasn’t any place you’d find touting sun and fun in a travel brochure.

  
**______________________________**   


Sam was right.

The sun might make it to Harvey, but fun appeared to be out of reach. Harvey was just another patch of rural nothing with an interstate running through it.

This was exactly Dad’s objective, having chosen the non-town for its accessibility to 81.

“That way, you can get out of Dodge easily if you need to,” Dad said, not saying that it also meant he could get to them easily if he needed to. Meanwhile, he was going on toward Roanoke, tracking a púca that some naive Lexington horse trainer had tried to break, only to end up dead along with his brother and son. The black horse was last seen thundering south on state route 700, after which a series of sudden crop deaths followed, farm after farm. All Dad needed to hear was one old Virginian’s reluctant mumbling about glowing eyes to know what was to blame for the family tragedy and the blight.

Dean wanted to go along of course, having never encountered a púca and overcome with the curiosity of a fresh hunt.

“Sam’s old enough to help too. He could use the experience.”

But Dad put his foot down. Even Sam’s uncharacteristic arguments fell on deaf ears — Sam preferring to keep moving rather than get stuck nowhere. Dad, however, suspected the púca might exhibit a preference for male lineages, typical of those taking the form of a stallion.

“Bob Singer’s meeting me at the house I picked out, then the two of us are heading out tomorrow before dawn. These suckers move fast, and we’re already falling behind."

Sure enough, one of Bobby’s rustbucket station wagons was already parked outside of the two-story farmhouse Dad led Dean and Sam toward. The house was all the way at the end of a gravel drive that branched off of Rocky Road — appropriately named as Dean had to stay a fair distance behind Dad’s truck to avoid the pebbles and grit it kicked up.

It was past midnight when they got there, but Bobby had lights on to welcome them as well as bacon frying on the grease-splattered stove, a gathering mound of scrambled eggs and a precarious tower of toast, more burnt toward the bottom layers and nearing perfection at the top.

They ate breakfast for dinner, or premature breakfast, on the wobbly linoleum kitchen table while Bobby and Dad hunched over newspaper clippings and printouts from a library that still used perforated paper. Sam’s fingers itched to rip off the strips. Dean inched closer to Dad and Bobby, only to be shut out by their hushed voices and wordless dialogue of glances. Dad told them to go clean up, so Dean did the dishes and Sam dried them on a threadbare towel that only seemed to smear around the wetness instead of absorb it.

Then Dad was going over the usual: supplies double-checked, cash counted, phone number list updated. Sooner rather than later, he and Bobby headed out the door, without a night’s rest, the hunt too urgent to be held off any longer.

Dad’s “Take care of your brother” was a rote goodbye, automatic and unyielding. Bobby grimaced in that way of his that was meant to be a grin. And they were gone.

Sam hadn’t even seen the rest of the house. He didn’t know where anything was, what there was to be had, or what they were going to do the next day or the next until Dad returned. When Dad dropped them off at places that weren’t motels, chances were they’d be there for a while. He didn’t even bother giving them a timeframe anymore. Plus, púca were tricksters and difficult. Still, they had lore behind them, and therefore predictable logic, which was more than could be said for Dad.

Dean, on the other hand, was dependable.

“Put those away then bring the rest of the bags in,” he said, draining the sink and flicking soapsuds at Sam’s face. “I gotta take a dump.”

Outside, the Impala’s chrome trim caught the light of the bare yellow bulb above the front door. It was hardly enough to light the way down the steps, let alone illuminate the car’s black body in all the blackness of the countryside at night, a new moon hiding in the black sky. But the stars — there were so many to be seen out there. They submitted to no other sources of light.

Sam kept a hand on his switchblade, kept his ears alert to his surroundings, let his eyes adjust to the dark before stepping down from the porch. But his eyes returned, again and again, to the star-littered sky, sweeping the woods for signs of movement, then up again, scanning the deeper shadows under the car, then back to the countless constellations.

He knew Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion the Hunter — obvious and unavoidable. He’d learned more on a fifth grade field trip to the Alworth Planetarium in Duluth. But it was easy then, each constellation highlighted, brighter than the rest in the domed ceiling. In a real night sky, separating them frustrated him. Out there, the stars swam together. Too many and too much, Sam gave up trying to name them. He leaned against the rear of the car and let them coalesce, unfocusing his eyes until the white striped the black in blurry contrast.

“Hey, Galileo, less star-gazing, more ass-hauling.”

Sam started more at Dean’s voice than the hand that smacked him in the stomach.

“Did I sneak up on you?” Dean chuckled. “Off your game there, Sammy.”

“Sam,” he corrected, not really minding the nickname, just pissed that he’d been caught off guard and that Dean had been the one to do it.

Dean settled next to Sam and pointed up. “That’s Lupus.”

“What?”

Slinging an arm around Sam’s shoulders, Dean rested his temple against Sam’s and continued to point, this time in Sam’s line of vision. “Lupus. Wolf.”

“I know what Lupus means,” Sam said, stubborn and covering up the fact that he still couldn’t follow Dean’s direction.

“It’s faint,” Dean said. His fingers outlined a simple shape. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s it though. Looks like a dick.”

“Nice.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“You like? Seems it could use a little more girth.” Dean fisted his hand and made a jerking motion for a second, then cuffed Sam on the chin. Sam swatted at his hand ineffectually. “Come on, Samantha,” Dean said. “Stop salivating over the giant penis in the sky and help me get this shit inside.” He turned and opened the trunk of the car, not waiting for Sam to move away, nearly clipping Sam in the head as the trunk popped up.

Sam did smack Dean then, as hard as he could on his upper arm. “Ass,” he said, well aware how petulant his grumbling sounded but unable to stop himself. He heaved a duffel full of salt and shells and other ammo and lugged it to the house.

“Ass and dick. We have a theme!” Dean sounded way too pleased with himself. “Just don’t go spanking it until we get everything inside, all right? And don’t do it the bedroom at the end of the hall. That one’s mine.”

It figured Dean would call dibs on bedrooms before Sam even got to look at them. Still, at least they had their own this time. It had been eight months since Sam had had a room to himself. Not that he wanted it to _spank it_ or anything. It was just nice to have privacy once in a while, especially with Dean always up in his space.

  
**______________________________**   


There were only two bedrooms upstairs, one at the north end and a bathroom at the other end of the hall. In the middle was Sam’s new room. It contained a metal bed frame so narrow that its twin mattress hung over the edges a little, a nightstand with one tiny lamp —mock-kerosene with a turn-key switch and thick, dotted milk-white glass that filtered the 40-watt light down to near-uselessness — and a round, ratty rug in concentric circles of faded red and browned yellow. He got a shallow closet for storage, but that was okay. He didn’t need much more for his few clothes and a handful of books.

The bed had clean sheets, so someone clearly looked after the place, because Bobby sure as hell wasn’t that into hospitality. Sam didn’t know if there was a landlord or landlady or if Dad had chosen this house because its owners were away on vacation. He could grill Dean for that information tomorrow. Dad always told Dean more than he told Sam, as though Sam was still a kid. Or maybe Dad was just conserving energy, knowing whatever Dean knew he could pass on to Sam.

At that moment, Sam was tired, too tired for an internal monologue about Dad’s quirks. He was even too tired to unmake the bed. After putting in enough effort to open the window wide and click off the lamp, he toed off his shoes and stretched out on the thin coverlet, listening to his joints pop, yawning so long he could feel the lingering strain in his jaw.

He let his hand rest on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall. His fingers played at the uncovered patch of skin between his shirt and waistband, contemplating letting them drift further down, wondering how tired he really was.

A creak in the hallway reminded him of his open door.

He turned his head quickly, squinting toward the sound.

All he heard was Dean’s “Night, Sam” and the rap of Dean’s knuckles on the doorframe. Dean’s footfall carried down the corridor. Sam listened to him shuffling around, the snick of a latch, the ratcheting of a zipper. Sam fell asleep to the sounds of Dean settling himself in. Knowing his brother was there was still enough to make Sam feel safe.

  
**______________________________**   


That night, Sam dreamed of a black horse on the beach. He had to save Kevin from it, but Kevin warded it off with a cross. The horse’s eyes flashed fiery and it hissed and retreated and so did Sam, walking backwards until the sand turned to woods. The trees parted on an overgrown path. The path’s dirt gave way to gravel. At the end of the wooded trail was the Impala. Its black hood reflected a hundred stars, a thousand. But when Sam looked up, the sky was dark nothingness. He stared and stared, searching, but not one star showed itself. Slowly, he looked down, aware of the sensation of something touching him but reflexes reacting with a dragged-out resistance.

Kneeling in front of him, Dean was drawing on Sam’s legs, which were suddenly bare. Everywhere Dean’s pen touched Sam’s skin, constellations formed, brilliant and shining from a source Sam could not see. But at every constellation, he felt warmth and longed for it to fill in all the empty spaces, shivering at the cold contrast. Dean named them all. He named shapes over Sam’s knees, linear nonsense and jagged geometry up and up Sam’s thighs.

Between his legs, Sam was hard, his dick aching for the warmth of Dean’s touch.

“Libra, the Scales,” Dean said and tipped forward, mouth open.

Sam blinked, and that quickly Dean’s face changed. He was looking down at Rachel. She was wearing Kevin’s glasses, but he couldn’t see her eyes. The lenses were covered in stars — all the constellations Dean had named, jumbled.

“Isn’t this what you want?” she asked. But she spoke with Dean’s voice.

Sam woke to the sound of steady rain. His underwear was sticking to him uncomfortably, but he rolled over and went back to sleep.

  
**______________________________**   


The rain had stopped by the time Sam got up, but it left the air dense with humidity. Without air conditioning in the house, Sam’s clothes clung to him with sweat. Sitting up, he felt the roughness of dried come in his pants and winced, remembering the dream.

Grabbing some clean clothes, he headed for the bathroom.

The door was open, but before he stepped inside, he saw Dean shaving in front of the mirror. There was a towel draped over Dean’s shoulder but nothing around his waist.

“These towels suck,” Dean said and bent over the sink to rinse off the shaving cream. With the wide stance of his legs, Sam could see Dean’s sac hanging, the stretch of his perineum, the small hole not quite hidden by the dark crease of his ass. Sam tried to tear his eyes away, but his gaze fell on the scratches below the round of one cheek, red against the pale skin.

“Was that the poltergeist?” Sam spoke before thinking, realizing too late that pointing out the marks would reveal that he had been staring at parts of his brother he was not supposed to stare at.

Dean wiped his face dry with the towel and glanced down, hand cupping over his ass to pull the skin up. His middle finger stroked over the raised lines and he smirked. “Girl at a bar back in Allentown. Think her name was Jenny.” He paused. “Penny?”

Half in and out of the bathroom, Sam thumped his forehead against the doorjamb. “Are you done?”

Laughing, Dean wrapped the towel around himself, and Sam could see what Dean had meant about them sucking, as the ends didn’t even meet around Dean’s narrow hips. It made Sam glad he’d decided to bring his clothes with him. Just because his brother had no problem hanging out bare-ass naked didn’t mean Sam wanted to do the same.

“All yours,” Dean said, brushing past Sam on his way out. It was the exposed part of Dean’s thigh that touched Sam’s, the towel flapping back. His bare shoulder nudged Sam’s too. Either Dean hadn’t dried off properly or he was already sweating because Sam could feel the slight dampness through his sleeve — one place his own sweat hadn’t yet reached. He worried that, so close, Dean might smell the dry spunk in his pants. Sam turned his hips toward the wall, as if that would help. All he could smell was Dean’s soap and deodorant and the faint trace of Barbasol, and he hoped that was all Dean could smell too.

As soon as Dean crossed the threshold, Sam darted inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Want coffee?” Dean said from the other side.

“Ye-yeah.” Sam faltered for a second, then carefully pulled down his zipper and peeled his jeans and underwear away from his crotch. He turned toward the toilet, his bladder full, but his dick too hard to do anything about it. He looked down at himself, angry and embarrassed and wanting. Giving his hands something else to do, he pushed back the vinyl curtain and stepped into the shower. It had no-slip stickers in the shape of seashells, green and coral, and Sam tried to focus on them — anything but his brother’s body or his own.

Hand on the tap, he jolted at the sound of Dean’s voice, still on the other side of the door.

“Don’t take too long whacking off in there unless you want your coffee cold.”

Sam heard the taunt in Dean’s voice, but had no comeback.

 _Cold, yeah,_ he thought, and turned the tap all the way to the right, gasping as the water rushed fast and frigid over his head.

It helped. But he was sweating again and pink-cheeked by the time he made it downstairs.

  
**______________________________**   


The first floor of their house held the kitchen on one end with a walk-in cupboard that included an old washer and dryer set, a cracked laundry basket and some generic detergent in a green foil box that was already opened. Were it not for the few canned goods and coffee they’d brought with them from Pennsylvania, the cabinets in the kitchen would’ve been barren. Same for the refrigerator, were it not for Bobby’s eggs, jug of milk and packet of butter. They’d have to go shopping soon, but that was typical. Past the kitchen and the stairs leading to the second floor was a living room with a brown plaid couch, a marginally paler brown recliner, a cheap coffee table with peeling woodgrain veneer, two end tables with two lamps with eagles on their bases and a floor model TV set.

“Does that even work?” Sam wondered out loud, heading away from the allure of coffee to nose around the empty room.

Dean came up behind him, holding a mug of coffee. “Go find out,” he said, bumping the toe of his boot against Sam’s heel. “Unless you can turn it on with the power of your mind.”

“Not before my first coffee,” Sam deadpanned. He pushed the power button, a thin silver rectangle, and the black screen pulsed white in the middle before an image of some lady’s face appeared, ghost-faint at first then strengthening. “At least it’s got color,” he said over his shoulder.

“And a remote. Move,” Dean said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table and flicking through the channels as soon as Sam stepped away from the console.

“Looking for Skinemax?” Sam watched the pictures flip past, people and cars and cats and dogs, listened to the start-stop of sentences cut off, Dean not staying on anything longer than a second or two.

Dean snorted. “Be lucky if there’s a local weather girl who wears a low-cut blouse.” He blew on his coffee, sipped noisily without taking his eyes off the screen.

Sam left him there to go root around in the kitchen. He found a mug with a smiling purple bear on it and filled it with black, still-steaming coffee from the maker on the counter. The toast was already room temperature. But Dean had buttered each slice while warm, and it had melted and soaked into the crevices, which was enough for Sam. Mug in one hand, toast in the other, he spied the front door Dean had opened and elbowed his way through the screen door.

The painted white porch was still wet from the rain, so he stood in front of the railing, looking around.

“Should I take you on the tour?” Dean said, pushing open the screen door, apparently bored already with the television. “Trees,” he said, pointing to the right. “Trees.” He pointed straight ahead, then to the left. “More trees.” Coming up beside Sam, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the house, behind it. “Back there? Wanna guess?”

“Disney World?” Sam said.

“So close.” Dean tipped back his cup, draining it. Sam found himself watching the movement of Dean’s neck as he swallowed. He turned back to his own coffee, sipping slowly as he looked out at all the trees.

They were definitely surrounded by woods. Pine and ash and maple and oak, the white crackle of a few birches. The small yard enclosed by these trees consisted of overgrown grasses spotted with the white flowers of clover. Nothing else but the weed-ridden gravel drive that went straight up to the bottom porch step, wound away from the house and downhill, past the tree line. The trees were so tall they blocked the mountains. Or possibly they were on a mountain; it had been hard to tell in the dark the night before. But Sam did remember an incline, the revving of the Impala’s engine as Dean stepped harder on the gas. Above them, however, were no peaks, only the overcast sky, weak with the thin light of the stubborn sun. He’d have to check around back, see if the view was different there. But he doubted it.

Dean stayed out there while Sam finished his breakfast, staring out at all the green, not saying anything. Sam didn’t even mind, until Dean started tapping his ring against the empty mug in his hands.

Sam tipped his head to look at Dean, mouth open to speak. He found Dean looking back at him and pressed his lips together in a tight line.

“So,” Dean said. “Wanna go for a drive?”

  
**______________________________**   


The expressway out of Harvey dropped and rose like a kiddie coaster — the road cut through the Blue Ridge Mountains, still steep even in the valley. It was lonely too, despite all the other cars, the constant tractor-trailers. It felt like a place to go through, not one welcoming you to stay.

But sights improved as they headed north.

Sam found out they were close enough to Lexington to make trips there relatively quick and — straight up the interstate — definitely easy. The town was small and sleepy with its two colleges in summer sessions, but it meant there was some civilization nearby, and Sam felt less isolated.

They drove around the hilly, old streets, Dean making note of the bars, Sam noticing the library, the cemetery named after Stonewall Jackson.

“Town like this,” Sam said, “there are gonna be ghosts. Bet you.”

Dean slowed as they passed the wrought iron gate, eyes on the rows of headstones, grinning.

Sure enough, there was even a ghost tour. Sam found it advertised among the other brochures in the library vestibule. A little more poking around turned up a handful of stories, most of them benign: a violinist and his faithfully departed dog, a tale of a cat that seemed little more than a clever retelling of Poe, and a place called Jack’s House that was touted to be the most haunted house on the East Coast despite not showing signs of activity from its supposed eight ghosts for decades. But a story about Robert E. Lee’s horse caught Sam’s attention. He made Dean drive past Lee’s old home and found the garage door open exactly as the local legend described: the current occupants keeping it open for the ghost of Lee’s horse. The attached garage used to be its stable.

“Do you think Dad knows?” Sam said. “I mean, the picture I found of Traveller— that’s the horse’s name,” Sam said when Dean shot him a look. “Anyway, Traveller wasn’t a black horse. But, come on. A ghost horse in the same town as a púca? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“You think General Lee led the Confederate Army on a púca? Dude, the guy wasn't _that_ bad.” Dean rounded the corner, glancing at the old home in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, but, not all púca are evil,” Sam shifted on the seat to face Dean. “I mean, this horse was pretty revered, almost as much as Lee. It was free to walk the streets any time it wanted. And look how they still honor it, keeping that garage door up for it so it can come and go as it pleases? Maybe, just say maybe, the ghost story is true, then maybe the horse was protecting the town. Maybe he even ran the other one out, the one that Dad’s after.”

“Guess this town wasn’t big enough for the both of ’em.”

Like always, Dean smiled at his own joke. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiled like that. Sam wondered if his did the same, or if they would in a few years.

“Dork,” he called Dean, not putting much effort into it, absently feeling around the contour of his eye, wondering if he could test himself with a forced smile without getting caught and questioned by Dean.

“Geek,” Dean threw back, too soft to get at Sam. But Dean’s hand ruffling Sam’s hair did the trick, had Sam jerking away and swatting at Dean.

“No, seriously, good work, Sammy,” Dean said, and Sam turned toward the window, fingers moving away from his eye to cover his smile.

  
**______________________________**   


Dad had left them a few hundred for groceries and gas and such, so they rationed out $75 at the store, $25 to top up the car’s tank.

On the way back to the house, Dean tried out a different route: 11, also known as Lee Highway — because they loved their General around there. It ran mostly parallel to 81, but was even more country in Sam’s estimation.

Dean mocked the signs for Natural Bridge, toyed with Sam saying they should take him there. “A freak of nature meets a wonder of nature.”

“Ha, ha,” Sam said, drawing up his legs, as if that would make them less long. Secretly though, he was proud to be almost as tall as Dean, finally. If he kept growing at the same rate, he’d be taller than him soon. For now, he was happy to let his big brother still be his big brother. Even if his big brother was a big pain in his ass.

Instantly, that thought, that word, brought back that morning’s bathroom encounter. Sam felt his face warm, and hid it in the crook of his arm, grateful to the wind for blowing his bangs flat over his eyes. He’d almost succeeded at pushing all of that to the far reaches of his mind. But it pushed back. Because Dean couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Because he couldn’t abide by normal rules of personal space or respect Sam’s right to not be exposed to his brother’s naked ass. And because Sam had to look, couldn’t be a normal kid brother and avert his eyes or walk away or just _not look_.

As they crested the inclined drive, with the house in sight, Sam was saved from further unbrotherly worries by the unexpected presence of another car.

Pulling up behind the old brown Dodge, they saw an older woman get out. She had a shocking shade of carrot-red hair tied up in a ponytail that swung back and forth as she stood and hooked her arm over the top of her open car door.

“Sam and Dean, right?”

Sam looked at Dean, and Dean glanced back with the faintest flicker out of the corner of his eye and gave a small nod that seemed to reassure Sam as much as it answered the woman.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, going to greet her. Sam lagged behind, held back by a tiny wave of shyness, waiting to let Dean lead.

It turned out the red-haired woman was the one renting out the house, a Mrs. Pollack. She lived a little farther down Rocky Road, and had just stopped by to welcome them. She also brought pie: a pecan pie that made Dean light up instantly.

Sam stayed quiet while Dean thanked her and charmed his way around her questions, getting more out of her than she did out of him. She didn’t need to know that Dad was away, but they did need to know how long the house was paid for: two months, not including utilities.

Sam did the math. If Dad took longer than that to finish the hunt, or found another in the area, Sam would have to enroll in school there. He should probably get a job, and Dean definitely would have to. Towns this small made it too risky to hustle pool. Moreover, the name Dad had used to make arrangements with Mrs. Pollack didn’t match with any of Dean’s credit cards — he’d have to be careful with those.

Apparently on the same page as Sam, Dean asked Mrs. Pollack if there was any work she needed done. But she had her grandson to help her and seemed to take offense at Dean’s offer, telling him she wasn’t too old to keep her house and her land and she’d keep going until she fell over, thank you very much. Mrs. Pollack was a bit of a firebrand. Sam kind of liked her.

“Just know that I’m not your housekeeper either.” She wagged a silver-ringed finger at them. “I trust that you’ll leave this house the way you found her.”

Sam tried not to snort at her personification of the house; it reminded him instantly of Dean and the car.

They promised, and she narrowed her eyes at them. But Sam saw the twinkle there, the tease.

She left them with the pie and a “Bye now” that strung out into gratuitous syllables.

When she left, they carried the groceries inside, put everything in the fridge that needed to go in there, leaving the rest on the counter. They made a lunch of ham sandwiches, ate them standing up, Sam stealing glances at the stuff they hadn’t put away, planning where each item would go, knowing he wouldn’t be able to let anything sit there.

From the kitchen table, Mrs. Pollack’s pecan pie seduced them. It looked homemade. It smelled like it had only just been pulled from the oven.

Brandishing two forks, Dean smiled at Sam, and Sam came after him with two plates. They groaned around their first mouthfuls, and the second and third. Dean opened his mouth, full of mashed-up pastry, then smacked his lips. Sam flicked a large crumb at him, winging the tip of Dean’s nose. Laughing, Sam nearly choked on the piece he hadn’t finished chewing. Dean picked the crumb off his shirt, licked it and stuck it to Sam’s nose. Sam wiped at his face, obliterating the piece of crust and sending Dean into a laughing fit of his own that lasted so long Sam couldn’t help but start laughing again too.

The pie lasted a day and a half, mostly split evenly.

Dean let Sam have the last piece. In fact, the pie would not have made it into the second day had Dean not left the final slice sitting there. Sam waited for Dean to take it after dinner that night, waited again for him to scarf it down with the beer he had before bed, lounging on the sofa, complaining about the musical guest on Letterman.

Sam eyed the piece suspiciously the next morning, and Dean shoved it across the table to him.

“Eat it.”

“Eat me,” Sam said, digging in to the sticky filling anyway.

Dean waggled his eyebrows at him.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

  
**______________________________**   


The second full day, after having pie for breakfast, Sam took a walk around the house.

There really was nothing behind it but trees. No mountain view, as suspected. But there were cinder blocks piled against the back of the house, some remnants of a forgotten project — maybe another porch, though there were no other doors besides the front one. So maybe the plan was to extend what was already there, wrap the porch around the entire building.

Home improvement wasn’t really Sam’s concern, however. His first thought upon seeing the cinder blocks was: fire pit.

One by one, he transplanted the blocks from their haphazard pile and placed them in a circle, halfway between the house and the woods. He estimated he needed two more to finish, maybe three, when Dean came out.

Sam didn’t explain what he was doing and Dean didn’t ask. He just said, “You know this means we have to buy graham crackers and marshmallows and chocolate now.”

Fitting the last cinder block snug in its place, Sam said, “Is it in the budget?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean said. “Those are officially staples.” He walked toward the trees, picking up fallen twigs and small branches, gathering them in the crook of his arm. Sam headed toward the other end of the backyard, soon returning to the cinder circle with a collection of firewood to match Dean’s.

After dumping their armfuls in the center of the pit, Dean leaned over, pulled out a needled stick of soft pine. Before Sam could move away, the stick switched against his backside. He yelped, voice cracking and betraying him. Then he shoved Dean and made a grab for the stick. Dean held it high over his head and Sam almost had it when Dean started jogging backwards. Sam began chasing him, but somehow he ended up being chased, Dean threatening to hit him with the stick every time he closed in on Sam, then Sam taking off like a shot, tall but still skinnier than Dean and just that little bit more spry.

What started out as a chase turned into laps around the house. After two dozen, Sam collapsed on the front steps and Dean sprawled out next to him.

They were drenched in sweat, panting like dogs. Sam’s calf muscles burned. Dean’s face was flushed bright pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Sweat rolled right into his eyes and Dean closed them, long eyelashes fanning out over the tops of his cheeks. There was a golden hue at the base of Dean’s eyelashes, lighter brown than Sam’s. It matched the shade of his freckles. Sam suddenly remembered Kevin’s freckles, the way he blushed. A puzzle piece snapped into place. But he shook it loose, shaking his head as if undoing his thoughts was a physical thing. Beads of his sweat landed on Dean and Dean glared at him.

Sam began to apologize, but Dean said, “Take a shower, Fido.” He ran his palm across his forehead then smeared his sweaty hand over Sam’s face.

“Hey!” Sam complained, as if his face wasn’t already a sweaty mess. He pulled up his shirt to wipe off with the one part of it not dripping wet. It was still damp, though, completely ineffective with his stomach having sweated through it. Even the waistband of his shorts felt like it could be wrung out, the hairs below his navel matted and clinging to the elastic.

When he lowered the shirt, Dean was staring at him in a way that made him tug on his hem self-consciously. He gazed down at his fingers curled around the bottom of his shirt, covering his stomach and those dark hairs that still seemed so new, showing up only a little over a year ago.

“Shower. Now,” Dean said, and his voice sounded ragged, still out of breath.

Sam obeyed, making it quick and cold, retreating to his room to read while Dean showered.

He was in the middle of a paragraph talking about the legacy of the Dúnedain, finally focused enough on the words to lose himself in them, when Dean interrupted him, told him he needed help cleaning the guns.

They spent the afternoon cleaning the entire arsenal: the shotguns and the sawed-offs, the Glocks, the Colt .45, Sam’s Beretta and Dean’s favorite Taurus 92. Spread out over the tatty brown carpet of the living room floor, each gun was disassembled, passed over with cloths, barrels brushed, metal oiled. Sam’s every move mirrored Dean’s, having learned long ago by copying him, willing his fingers not to fumble but to emulate the grace of Dean’s.

When they were finished and everything tucked back away, Dean let Sam drive to Kroger, where he grabbed another six-pack of beer to go with the s’mores.

They had mac and cheese for dinner, polishing off a family-sized box’s worth. Then Dean held up his Zippo, grinned at Sam and said, “Shall we?”

Outside, the sun had gone down behind the trees, dark blue inking up the sky. The crickets had started up and fireflies flitted over the tops of the tall grasses, flickering on and off. The ones closest to the trees, branches beginning to seem black in the twilight, looked just like stars. Sam thought of fallen stars, fairies, remembered the púca and said a silent prayer that Dad was safe.

“You think he’ll call soon?” Sam said, a box of graham crackers in one hand and Hershey bars in the other.

“Give him another day,” Dean said, opening the bag of marshmallows and popping one into his mouth. “You know how he is.”

With the damp from the previous day’s rain, the fire had a few false starts. Eventually Dean got it going to a roaring blaze that made Sam’s face prickle with beads of sweat. They sat cross-legged on the ground with the bag and box and bars between them. The grass tickled Sam’s bare legs, his skin twitching. He tucked the ends of his shorts tight under his knees to keep the insects out, although every time he checked there was nothing on him. Then Dean was ripping into the packages and Sam got distracted, forgetting the grass and the creepy crawlies.

They toasted marshmallows until they were charred, burning their fingertips, too greedy to wait as they pulled them off and squished them between crackers, chocolate melting instantly, getting all over their hands. Dean had chocolate around the edges of his mouth like a toddler and Sam laughed at him, even though he knew his mouth was just as bad. Dean didn’t care. He added to the mess on his mouth, only swiping his thumb over the corners when he’d swallowed his last bite.

Sam tried not to watch Dean lick himself clean. He ducked his head, tonguing at his own lips, going over them with the back of his hand.

A glint of light flashed in Sam’s periphery, and he thought _firefly_. But it was the firelight reflected off a bottle of beer.

“Here,” Dean said, holding the bottle loosely by the neck, angling the bottom toward Sam.

“Really?” Sam said, nearly smacking himself for his own stupidity. He sounded like a child, felt like one too, never having drunk anything but whiskey before. And that was because Dad had been readying to sew up a gash in Sam’s side at the time, and Sam wouldn’t stop wiggling around. The whiskey had been only a thimble’s worth, enough to shut him up. Sam had been too shocked by the pain, still too scared of the chupacabra that had stuck its claw in him, to appreciate the fact that he was getting his first taste of alcohol. That was only last year.

“Yeah,” Dean said, breaking Sam’s train of thought. “Don’t feel like drinking alone.” He shrugged.

“But,” Sam said, “you drink alone all the time.”

“Well.” Dean slapped the bottle, cool and wet with perspiration, into Sam’s hand. “I don’t want to tonight.”

Sam looked down at the glass lip of the bottle, slipped his fingers around the base in a better grip. He raised it, then paused and turned to Dean. “That sounds like a bad country song.”

Dean smiled, took a pull from his beer. “That sounds redundant.”

With his brother looking on, Sam took his first drink of beer. Corona. Not Light.

It tasted okay.

Sam wasn’t naive about the effects of alcohol. He knew from observation that it took Dean five beers to get tipsy. Dad, who used beer to chase the harder stuff, needed at least four shots with at least three beers to get to sleep. But when Sam’s bottle was three-quarters of the way to empty and he still didn’t feel anything, he was a little disappointed.

Seeming to sense Sam’s disappointment — or possibly noticing the way Sam upended and shook his empty bottle, Dean handed him another.

Anxious to feel something, anything, Sam downed half the beer in a single gulp that left him panting.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean said, hand at Sam’s elbow, not letting him take another drink until he caught his breath.

Somewhere between that moment and the last swig, Sam realized his skin was tingling. He checked himself over, but nothing was on fire. The cinder blocks were doing their job. He scooted a foot back from the fire just in case. His head seemed to have a delayed reaction, moving a split second after the rest of him. He felt... _swimmy_. He also felt like he had to pee.

“Doing okay there, Sam?” Dean blew into the bottle when Sam didn’t respond. It sounded like a tiny foghorn.

Sam thought of ships in bottles, smiled to himself.

“Can I have another?” he asked.

Dean gave him a once-over. “I think we’ll work our way up to that. You look like you’re ready to go in.”

Sam was anything but. He liked it out here, liked the way the fireflies darted about, leaving trails of hazy radiance behind them. He liked the way the treetops silhouetted against the deep blue sky. The moon was up, a slight sickle, like a crack in a planetarium dome, outnumbered by stars. He liked the warmth of the fire even though the air wasn’t chilly. He liked knowing Dean was there, liked the sound of his fingers slipping wetly over the bottle, the clack of his ring when he uncapped a new one, the click in his throat when he swallowed.

Sam didn’t want to go inside at all.

“Come on, let’s at least get this stuff put away before the bugs get it,” Dean said, pinching bottlenecks between his fingers, palming the crumpled up chocolate wrappers, twisting a finger in the plastic of the marshmallow bag. Clutching his bottle, Sam snatched up the graham crackers and tried to stand up hands-free. He wobbled.

Suddenly Dean was there, behind him and beside him all at once, saying _whoa there_ like Sam was a horse.

“I’m not a horse,” Sam told him.

“No,” Dean said, guiding Sam around the fire pit and toward the front of the house. “Maybe a mule.”

They made it to the kitchen without much stumbling on Sam’s part, walking much easier once he got going.

“Can you put these away without falling over?” Dean asked, setting everything on the kitchen counter.

“You’re an ass,” Sam said.

“But not a horse?”

Sam snickered.

Dean shook his head, said, “Put it away. I’ll be out back.”

Sam did as he was told, thinking at least he wouldn’t have to stay in even if he didn’t get any more beer. It was an acceptable compromise.

But when he made it back outside, Dean was standing over a dark fire pit, the flames doused and smoking. The fireflies were gone too. Or else they’d gone up into the sky to join the stars.

“It’s safe,” Dean said, assuaging a concern Sam hadn’t even bothered to have. “We can go in.”

Not wanting the evening to end yet, Sam said, “Is Letterman on?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh,” was all Sam could come up with.

“We could find a movie to watch. Gotta be something decent.” Dean’s hand curved around the back of Sam’s neck, thumb kneading the tendon, and Sam felt hopeful.

Slumped together on the sofa, they found a John Wayne marathon, came in toward the end of _The Quiet Man_ just in time to see Maureen O’Hara dragged through the town. The next one was better — the one with Jimmy Stewart. But Sam felt his head go heavy, found Dean’s shoulder to be the perfect solution to that, and Dean didn’t protest. Then he had to fight the weight of his eyelids, and he was sure if he closed them for just a second it would be sufficient and he’d catch his second wind. The sound of gunfire faded into the background like a lullaby.

Sam woke the next morning in his bed, not remembering walking there and worried that he hadn’t, that Dean had carried him like he was a little kid again.

Not yet opening his eyes to the sun that bled through his lids no matter how tightly he squeezed them, Sam went over the last bit of the dream he had, already fast receding.

He’d dreamed of horses again — pale, transparent horses you could see the stars through. There was something about his brother grooming a horse’s mane through his fingers, how Sam could feel it in his own hair, though Dean was far off in the weeds. There was something else about Dean that Sam couldn’t picture, the image inaccessible like a word on the tip of your tongue. But the mood lingered, a sense of contentment, like being wrapped up in someone’s arms. He curled his blankets around him, chasing that warmth, only getting up when the heat of the day became too much to bear.

  
**______________________________**   


Dad called on Monday morning.

Sam was hunched over his cereal bowl, waiting for his shredded wheat to absorb the right amount of milk — not so much that it washed away the frosting but enough to prevent the bits of wheat from scratching his throat on the way down.

Dean, though, had a handful of the square pieces and crunched down on them dryly, one by one. When the phone rang, he _hmmm_ ed, took a quick gulp of coffee and fished into his pocket for the cell.

Knowing it must be their father, Sam slid his chair closer to hear as much as he could. Luckily, Dad had a loud voice. Maybe that was why Dean held the phone away from his ear, though Sam suspected he wanted to let Sam in on everything too, if only to avoid answering Sam’s inevitable questions like he used to when Sam was younger and wasn’t allowed to know as much.

Apparently, Dad and Bobby had almost cornered the púca in Chilhowie. But it spooked when it heard whinnying outside of Sulphur Spring Cemetery — a strange sound, Dad said, deeper than a normal horse but somehow hollow, and nothing like the púca which rarely mimicked real horses beyond their appearance. The púca took off west through a field too rugged for Dad’s truck to handle. He and Bobby had split up, with Bobby last heard from near Knoxville and Dad investigating a lead in West Liberty, Kentucky. The police had picked up a man found unconscious in a ditch by the roadside. Despite passing a Breathalyzer test, the man had been dismissed as drunk by the local paper because, when he came to, he claimed to have been thrown off a black horse with blazing eyes. Why he was riding it in the first place, Dad couldn’t find out. But it fit the m.o., so Dad felt the lead was strong. He had a suspicion that the púca had changed direction, now northbound instead of south.

When he heard that, Sam elbowed Dean. “Tell him,” he whispered.

“Tell me what?” Sam heard Dad say.

Dean filled him in on Sam’s findings, skipping over the name of the horse until Sam muttered it for a third time. “Oh yeah, and the horse is called Traveller.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece, and looked at Sam. “In case he needs to call it by name.” Sam ignored Dean’s derisive tone.

There was silence on the other end, then Dad said, “That might be something.”

“Sammy found it out. He figured the ghost horse could really be a púca too, the good kind. Could be the horse you heard near the cemetery.”

“Could be,” Dad said.

“Maybe it spent so long pretending to be a real horse it acts more like one too,” Sam said, loud enough that Dad would be able to hear. But Dad didn’t answer.

“Should we dig up his grave?” Dean asked, not mentioning that Traveller’s supposed remains were encased in concrete in the Lee Chapel in town, neither an easy material to dig through nor an inconspicuous location.

“No,” Dad said. “No, we’re not hunting General Lee’s horse. You boys just keep your heads down and stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

“Look, son,” Dad said. “This is gonna take some patience, especially now that it knows we’re after it. So, it might be a while.” Sam missed the rest, Dad’s voice going quieter and Dean pressing the phone back to his ear to hear him. Still, Sam filled in the blanks when he heard Dean say, “We have enough to get by. We’ll be all right.”

There was another lull, Sam straining to hear but getting nothing, not willing to chance pressing his ear to the other side of the phone like he used to when he was little, pissing off Dean and thereby pissing off Dad. Then Dean said, “Yeah, Dad, I will. Okay.” And he clicked the phone shut.

“Seems we’ll be here for a while,” Dean said.

Sam stabbed at his cereal with his spoon, the squares breaking apart easily now that they’d gone mushy. He didn’t really want to eat it but was too hungry not to, and he couldn’t bring himself to waste food anyway. He thought about how he hadn’t wanted to stay in this place, still unsure if he really wanted to, but somehow not minding that moving was not on the immediate horizon. Resting his cheek on his hand, Sam stared down at his bowl, said to Dean, “You’ll have to get a job for certain now?”

“Looks like,” Dean said.

“Me too,” Sam said.

“If you want.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean lick the frosting side of the shredded wheat before chewing it. Sam forced himself to eat a soggy spoonful of his own breakfast and swallowed hard around the lumpy mass. It seemed like he could already feel it in his stomach, heavy and strange.

  
**______________________________**   


The town of Natural Bridge was a short drive up the interstate, closer to Harvey than Lexington. It was a tourist trap named after a chunk of impressively eroded rock. They had a trail under the rocky archway, caverns, a wax museum, the requisite gift shop. Dean considered trying for a job there.

“Wax museums, Sam. They’re creepy. You never know if those damn things will come to life.”

But then he heard about the Haunted Monster Museum.

“Dude, it was made by the guy who did Alice Cooper’s tour sets!”

Dean’s mind was made up.

The “museum” was actually a typical haunted house attraction, with moving floors and people jumping out at you shouting _boo_. It was set back in the woods, with two other attractions on either side of the house: one called Dinosaur Kingdom and another called Hunt Bigfoot with a Redneck. At the latter, Dean scoffed ad nauseam because, unlike the fake ghosts, the plaster dinosaurs chomping on plaster Civil War soldiers and even the nearby life-size replica of Stonehenge made entirely out of Styrofoam with a Merlin statue standing alongside it, it was _Bigfoot_ that stretched plausibility to the breaking point for Dean.

Yet that’s where he ended up working, guiding tourists through a trail of woods on an entirely cheesy hunt for Bigfoot. The opening was there, like the position was waiting for Dean to come along and fill it. He glossed over his sketchy job history, honing in on the recruiter’s Eddie tattoo, asking him his favorite Iron Maiden song and winning him over instantly.

The place’s policy being to throw new hires right into work and see how they fared, sink or swim, Dean had his first tour within an hour of their arrival at the Haunted Monster Museum. Technically, a guy named Jason was supposed to walk Dean through the steps of the Redneck tour. But Jason set Dean up, feeding him lines from the scripted material and Dean reacted lightning quick. Dean had told Sam he was going to set the tourists straight, but Sam didn’t believe him for a second. Watching from a bench while Jason introduced himself and Dean to the first group, Sam saw the way Dean played to the kids. While the few adults, mainly parents, stood back, indulgently amused, the children gravitated toward Dean, hanging on his every word, first to follow and last to leave. Dean fed off their excitement, fueled it when their enthusiasm wasn’t high to start. When the older ones shuffled after him looking bored and jaded, Sam saw almost every single one of those kids exit the trail, towing their parents after them, exclaiming about seeing Bigfoot, giggling over the animatronic creature’s antics, proclaiming Dean to be “so cool” for taking on the big hairy guy.

Jason said Dean was a natural. They gave him three tours that first day, one solo while Jason took a break.

Afterward, Dean bought himself and Sam a lunch of hotdogs and chips, getting a free Coke from Toni, the girl who worked the food stand, because his employee discount wasn’t official yet.

“What about my kid brother?” Dean winked at her.

“Oh, all right,” she said, not sounding the least bit put out.

They ate at a picnic table behind the Haunted House. Sam listened to Dean complain about how silly the tour was, all the over-the-top highlights, such as a flying saucer staged to look like it had crashed into the side of some Ma and Pa Kettle ramshackle cabin. For all his sarcasm, Dean failed to hide the glint in his eyes. With the way he beamed just talking about it, Sam wished he could see Dean in action, through the main part of the tour, not just the beginning and end. But he figured it might make Dean self-conscious.

“Did you check out the rest of the place?” Dean asked, shooing away a Daddy Longlegs that was scurrying over the tabletop.

Sam quirked his lip, shrugged, tore off a piece of bun.

“Seriously? Sam, you’ve been sitting out there like a bump on a log this whole time?”

“Didn’t mind,” Sam said.

“Well, I do.” Dean tipped back his bag of chips, got up, crunching on the last crumbs, tossed the bag into the trashcan, snatched up his soda and said, “Let’s go. We at least gotta see the dinosaurs.”

“Really?” Sam stayed seated on the picnic bench, though his hand curled around his drink and the rest of his hotdog like part of him was ready to go.

“Yes, really,” Dean said, already walking away, as if he knew Sam would follow. “Consider it research,” he said over his shoulder.

“Dinosaurs are all dead,” Sam scoffed. “You expecting to come across a dinosaur ghost?”

“You never know, Sammy. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Right,” Sam said, a little out of breath from jogging to catch up with Dean.

“Never know,” Dean repeated as they passed through the entry point to Dinosaur Kingdom, a small hut with _Jurassic Park_ -style lettering over its doorway. Through the other end, a large animatronic head opened its jaws to greet them. “Might have to burn some bones at the Natural History Museum someday because T-Rex snacked on some school kids.”

“Or maybe _that_ comes to life at night,” Sam said, pointing to the first statue they came to. It looked like a zombie fending off a velociraptor.

“The undead and the long dead. Match made in heaven,” Dean said.

They made fun of each and every vignette in the Kingdom, which wasn’t so much a kingdom as a nature trail littered with garish sculptures. But Sam kind of liked it.

He liked it less the next day, when he tagged along while Dean put in his first full shift. Sam got to wander around the grounds for free, but with no other job openings for him there, the novelty of the place wore thin within a few hours. He sat on the same bench as the day before, reading while the tourists came and went, sneaking glances at Dean every time he greeted a new group and again when he escorted them out.

At lunch, Sam decided to talk Dean into letting him borrow the car so he could find work somewhere else with a promise to be back by closing time.

He started in Natural Bridge, worked his way up toward Lexington. At 16, his choices were limited, and the fake I.D. stayed in his wallet — another risk not worth taking.

At Berkey’s Truck Stop Diner, a _Now Hiring_ sign caught his eye. After being rejected at two gas stations, one Subway and an Applebee’s, he hoped his luck would change there. At least they were asking for help; his offer wouldn’t be unwanted.

Sherry, the manager there, looked him up and down, shook his hand with an iron grip when he held it out, and called him “a tall drink of water” with just enough flirtation to make him blush.

“We could use someone your size, intimidate the truckers if they get a little restless. You got any muscle on you, boy?”

“I guess so, ma’am.”

“That stack of dishes — can you handle that?” Sherry nodded to the crate of dirty dinnerware at the end of a row of booths.

Sam figured she was being facetious but the hands-on approach seemed most effective, so he walked over, picked up the crate without any effort and smiled at her. “Where to?”

Sherry laughed. “Okay, Hercules. Back down for now. Come with me to my office and we’ll get you signed up and legal. Unless—” She stopped. “There a reason you maybe wouldn’t want to keep it legal?” She arched a penciled-in eyebrow at him.

“No, ma’am.” Somehow he got the impression that she would have hired him even if he had said yes. Maybe that would have been better, safer for the family to be paid under the table. But Sam wanted to do this by the books. A normal job that a normal teenager might have in a small town.

“Okay,” she said, and Sam followed the bounce of her cotton-candy bob of platinum hair.

  
**______________________________**   


Despite being a minor, Sam convinced Sherry to let him work the night shift at Berkey’s. The hours would wreak havoc on his internal clock, still adjusted to school time. But that wouldn’t be the first summer he spent awake all night long — that occurrence wasn’t even confined to summer. But this way he and Dean could share the car without any issues of overlap. Dean got off work at 6, could be home by 6:15, giving Sam plenty of time to get to work at 7.

He expected some protest from Dean about how the arrangement would complicate his social life, but Dean made no complaints.

At a diner frequented by truckers, the late shift sometimes sees more activity than the other shifts, and Berkey’s was no exception.

It had a gas station, a gift shop, restrooms with shower stalls, cheap food and a curious collection of toy cars hanging from the restaurant ceiling — a pragmatic location with perks. The frequent influx of customers meant Sam was constantly busing tables, bouncing from one booth to the next, pinning on a smile as he filled water glasses, welcomed, and went on to the next table that needed clearing, excusing himself as he bustled up and down the aisles. He learned his coworkers’ names in passing: Dana at tables 1 through 6, Inez 7 through 12, Eileen 13 through 18, and Wanda, 20 through 24, often helping out Peg at the counter. They rarely shared breaks, so they became a blur of hair color and height: blonde and black and brown and gray, all shorter than Sam except willowy Eileen. In the back, Nick and Wendell cooked, while a kid about Sam’s age nicknamed Opie — though he didn’t have red hair — prepped and fetched food and took care of the dishes. Sam didn’t get his real name and Opie couldn’t really stop to chat, didn’t look up much either. Most of them introduced themselves. The rest he was told about by Terri, who worked the register and also managed overnight.

“Terri, with an _i_ ,” she said.

Great, he wasn’t going to get that confused with Sherry at all, not with an _i_.

Within the first week, Sam found himself too busy to worry about Dad or Bobby or to wonder if, up north, Kevin was sending letters to a residence that no longer had a Sam Winchester. By the end of his last shift before his one day off, he realized he’d been too tired to consider how Dean was adjusting, if the new shine of his touristy job had worn off or if he was beginning to itch for a hunt of his own. He hadn’t even seen Dean for more than a few minutes since Tuesday. Dean was asleep by the time Sam arrived home each morning, and Sam was asleep by the time Dean got up. Sam ate dinner before Dean got home, always making enough for Dean but never getting to share the meal with him.

But in small towns like this, things shut down on Sundays. And, although Berkey’s kept going nonstop, Sam got to go home in the early hours on Sunday, knowing Dean wouldn’t be heading off to work later.

Tired as he was, Sam was determined not to sleep the day away. He’d never admit it out loud in a million years, but Sam kind of missed his brother.

He drove from the diner to the house on Rocky Road, racing against the sunrise, watching the lights of the strip malls fade to the intermittent lights of gas stations to the pitch black of the country pierced through by the Impala’s headlights. He kept the radio off, preferring the quiet after the clattering noise of the diner, not sure he could handle the aggressive drum beats and heavy guitar of Dean’s station, too wiped out to be certain that if he changed it to something he liked he’d remember to change it back before heading in, subjecting Dean to what he liked to call “Sam’s whiny alternative shit” come Monday morning. As much as Sam enjoyed fucking with Dean on occasion, he simply did not feel like it now.

By the time he pulled up to the end of the gravel drive, the sky was already a deep blue, the stars blinking out as the birds began to stir.

Around the bare bulb over the front door, moths and other insects buzzed and beat their wings. Sam swung the screen door open, fumbled with the key and lock, and snuck inside as quickly as possible. Even so, a few moths got in, along with a striped beetle that Sam didn’t recognize until it glowed bright.

“Hey,” he heard, and turned to find Dean at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing at his eye like a little boy.

“Hey,” Sam said. He looked back toward the firefly, but it had flown off. Pocketing his keys, he slumped against the door, rolling his back over the edge of the frame, the jut of it exquisite against his sore muscles. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean said. The yawn that followed did nothing to support Dean’s lie.

“Uh huh.” Sam tilted his head back, blinked up at the ceiling, noticed a spider’s nest in the juncture between it and the wall.

“Gonna make coffee,” Dean said, ambling toward the kitchen. “You want some, or are you going to go to bed?”

There was something about the tone in his voice that made Sam think going to bed was a poor choice. Every aching joint and worn-out bone in his body argued for that choice, but Sam opted to follow Dean. He took the mugs down from their cabinet while Dean scooped the filter full of fresh grounds — well, fresh from the store-brand can. The rich smell of it triggered Sam’s trained senses. He felt more awake, even though he knew it was a trick, that he could fall asleep after a cup if he gave in.

He got the box of frozen waffles from the freezer. Dean had the syrup on the counter before Sam put the first batch in the toaster, peering in at the wire coils, making sure the waffles didn’t burn.

At five in the morning, Sam and Dean had breakfast at the same table for the first time in five days. To Sam, it felt like five weeks. But it also felt like five minutes, the way they fell back together, old patterns of flinging food, slurping loudly just to annoy. Dean burped, and Sam kicked him under the table, waved his hand over his face to ward off the stench of coffee breath. Dean kicked back, the toenail of his bare foot jabbing Sam in the shin.

“Ew, you need to cut those,” Sam said.

“Nah, gonna grow ’em long and yellow like a real redneck.”

“So this job is just an excuse for you to let yourself go,” Sam said, fork tongs aimed at Dean accusingly. “I knew it.”

Dean got serious then, face and tone softening in a way that made Sam nervous. “How are you doing, Sammy? That’s rough work.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said, staring down at his plate. “It’ll keep us afloat, with your wages. We might even be able to tuck some away by the time Dad gets back.” He looked up, said, “He hasn’t called has he?”

Dean shook his head. “Too busy.”

Sam huffed. “Know the feeling.”

Dean fell silent and Sam finished off his waffles, circling the last piece through the leftover puddle of syrup.

“Maybe you could get them to reduce your hours,” Dean said suddenly.

“But it’s good money, Dean.”

“You’re too young to....” Dean trailed off.

“I’m old enough to work.” Sam raised his voice, not meaning to. “I’ve worked harder on hunts with you and Dad.”

“That’s different,” Dean said, voice not rising to meet Sam’s, but curt.

“Yeah, this actually _pays_.” Sam couldn’t help the criticism; once he got into the rhythm of an argument he couldn’t stop himself.

“You know what.” Dean pushed away from the table, shaking his head, that not-smile that Sam knew for a warning on his face. “Screw the money.” He let his dish clatter into the sink. “This,” he said, stopping, putting a hand to the faucet. He bowed his head, withdrew his hand without turning on the tap. “What we do,” he said, voice low but echoing off the stainless steel basin of the sink. “It ages you fast enough.” He turned his head a little and Sam could see the side of his face, his lowered eyes, the small opening of his lips. “I’ve seen it in Dad. I, I don’t want to see it in you.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, fast to correct him, reassure.

Dean grunted. “Say that in another week. A month.”

Sam got up, walking toward Dean but stopping a few feet behind him, uncertain of how near to go, what to do with his hands. He said, “Dean, I’ll be _fine_.”

“Okay, Sam.”

The way Dean said it made Sam feel anything but okay. He reached out, tapped a knuckle against Dean’s shoulder, wanting to drag it down along his sleeve, so soft from being worn so often over the years. “Really,” Sam said, emphasizing the word in a way that reminded him of all the times he’d tried to finagle things as a kid. Like: _I can walk to school. You don’t have to drive me. Really._ Or, _I’ll take care of the iguana. Feed it and clean it and everything. Really._ He saw through his own words, the stubbornness transparent, showing failure on the other side. Still, he squared his shoulders and said, “Give it another week. Let me try?” It felt like middle ground, which he guessed was better than none at all.

Better still, it got Dean to look at him directly. “If you’re this wiped out by next week, you quit? No arguing?”

Sam hesitated but said firmly, “Promise.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped, that release of tension that made getting his way look almost like defeat. He twisted around, propping his hip against the counter. His eyes searched Sam’s, seeming to fall just below them.

“I promise,” Sam said, quieter but more urgent.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean said, the nickname and the sound of his voice bolstering Sam’s belief that it truly was okay this time. He patted the side of Sam’s face, his hand heavy and large and comforting. It rested there, warm against Sam’s cheek, as Dean thumbed at the thin skin below Sam’s eye. He was sure he had circles there, though he hadn’t looked in a mirror long enough to check. “You’re still a kid,” Dean said, watching his own movements, Sam tracking the course of Dean’s eyes. “You should get to stay a kid, for a little longer.” Dean curled his fingers along the shell of Sam’s ear, bit his lip, then turned back to the sink.

Sam stood there for a second, nerves hanging on to the feel of Dean’s touch. Water rushed out of the faucet as blood rushed through Sam’s ears.

Then he cleared the table and helped Dean do the dishes.

Afterward, Dean told him to go to bed.

Sam sat on the couch and turned the TV on. “Nah,” he said. “Awake now.”

Dean scratched at the top of his head, leaving his hair in a disarray of tufts. “Well, I’m going back to bed.”

Sam flipped through a few channels. He heard the creak of the stairs, but still called out, “ _Every Which Way But Loose_ is on.”

The stairs creaked again, and then the floorboards, then the couch springs as Dean sank down into the seat next to Sam. He didn’t say anything, just spread out his legs and let his arms flop over the back of the couch. Sam could feel the dip in the cushion behind him where Dean’s hand was.

Sometime between the first commercial break and the next, Sam eased back until Dean’s fingers were barely touching the base of his neck. Sam didn’t move any closer, but Dean didn’t move his hand away.

Dean laughed at every one of the orangutan’s ridiculous faces, laughed hardest every time he blew a raspberry. But Sam paid no attention to the ape’s antics, though he smiled along. While Dean was busy laughing his head off, he was also playing with the ends of Sam’s hair. Sam felt the way he swept lightly along the bottom. He felt the gentle tug as Dean twirled one lock, the way he abandoned it to ruffle the shorter hairs that tapered down the top of Sam’s spine. The contact remained minimal, so light, but it was all Sam could feel. All his focus tunneled down to Dean’s touches.

It was the kind of thing he could fall asleep to, had in years past, when he was little and hadn’t learned to complain about being babied. This time, however, he stayed awake.

All the way to the end of the movie, Sam stayed still, not wanting to alert Dean to what he was doing. If he didn’t know. Sam wondered if he did.

When the credits rolled, Dean announced he was taking a shower and headed upstairs.

Sam blinked at the sunlight that was now streaming through the curtainless windows. It made him want to close his eyes. So he did.

  
**______________________________**   


Sam dreamed of dishes. They piled up, _one, two, three, four, fivesixseven_ , stack after stack. He carried them up and down a long aisle of empty booths. The other end seemed far away, but he had to get there, had to get the dishes there without dropping them.

He was a few feet from the end, a large bus bin his blessed goal, when he heard knocking.

Waking, he cracked his eyes open, groaning at the crick in his neck. Reluctant to move, he rubbed at it anyway.

The knocking returned, louder. Real.

Sam talked himself into getting up to answer it, was about to count himself off, when Dean tromped down the stairs and got there first.

Before he could see who it was, Sam caught the acrid scent of smoke.

Leaning back against the open screen door, Mrs. Pollack pulled a cigarette from her mouth and said, “Hey, boys.”

She asked if they were done with her pie, and Sam ran off to the kitchen to get the empty pan while Dean thanked her and complimented her on it. When Sam handed the pan to her, she nodded, asked how they were holding up.

“House is still standing,” she said, before they could answer, thumbnail pressed between her teeth, cigarette in the same hand precariously close to her cheek.

Dean agreed and invited her in, but she waved him off, said she had things to do.

“You go to church?” she asked through the wire mesh as she closed the screen door. Sam could tell she was sizing them up, braced himself for some preaching.

“Uhh.” Dean glanced down at the floor, stuffed his hand into the pocket of his jeans. Sam looked at him, then away.

“Yeah, me neither,” Mrs. Pollack said and left in a cloud of smoke, her Dodge’s wheels kicking up dust on the gravel drive.

Dean snorted and Sam went back to the couch. Dean joined him.

They watched bits of the news, a few minutes of a nature program about crocodiles and wildebeests, part of another John Wayne movie that Sam didn’t recognize — because apparently a weekend couldn’t go by without a John Wayne marathon. Sam thought Dean might talk about his job, press Sam further about reducing his hours or quitting. Instead, they talked about going to see the Natural Bridge itself, the wax museum (Dean suggested they bring sage to burn around the figures, just in case), the zoo. Dean refused to drive through the safari park despite the Impala having been through worse terrain. They’d driven it through bracken and past thorny bushes, over highways that had more potholes than asphalt. But somehow bison posed a bigger threat in Dean’s mind. They talked about heading up to Lexington, checking out the cemetery for any signs of disturbance, wandering the town’s streets to listen for the sound of hooves — Traveller’s most common way of letting his presence be known according to the stories — or even catch a glimpse.

But they didn’t do any of that. They stayed in. There was laundry to do and Dean wanted to wash the car.

In between loads, Sam came out, helped Dean wax and buff the black metal until it shone. They were dripping with sweat, and Dean peeled his shirt off, balled it up and threw it into the pail with the damp towels.

“Got room for these?” he said, picking up the pail.

Sam nodded. He watched Dean take the porch steps two at a time, sweat trickling down his broad back, lines running along the indent of his spine, disappearing beneath the dark waistband of his underwear, his jeans hanging low on his hips.

Sam had forgotten about this. Whatever this was — this awareness of Dean. The way he looked with his clothes off. The shape of his body under the layers, the way he carried himself when no one but Sam was around to see. He wanted to touch Dean, feel him like this, all exposed. It seemed like something that was only his, that belonged only to him. And if Dean wanted the same, that would be okay.

Standing beside the car, under the hot midday sun with nothing but the trees around, Sam pictured Dean now, standing over the washing machine, and thought: _If you wanted to touch me, I’d let you._

There was a flash of fantasy: Sam joining Dean in the laundry closet, taking off his shirt and jeans, dropping them into the washer. Then he imagined slipping out of his briefs, letting Dean see him, all of him. He wouldn’t have to ask, wouldn’t have to say anything. Dean would simply undress the rest of the way too, walk up to Sam, push his naked body against Sam’s, skin cooled down enough to stick, gluing them together.

Walking inside, Sam heard the laundry rumbling away on the other end of the kitchen. He went straight ahead, up the stairs, into the bathroom. He stood over the toilet, stroking his dick with his left hand, fist curled tight, upside down, pulling fast. His cheeks burned as he thought of Dean’s right hand, the ring slicking up with precome, slipping around Dean’s finger, slipping hard over Sam’s circumcision scar. He shot off in the bowl, hitting the seat too, but too busy trying to hold back his breath to care.

It’s not like they hadn’t jerked off in the same house or even motel room before. But that didn’t mean Sam wanted Dean to hear him.

He wiped up his mess, flushed and sprayed the air freshener.

Sam went back downstairs and spent the rest of the day pretending he hadn’t come thinking of his brother.

It was difficult. Out of sight, out of mind usually proved to be a valid idiom. But with the way Dean stuck by him, Sam had to work harder to tamp down his thoughts.

They made grilled cheese over the fire pit for supper, Dean piling the remaining cinder blocks into two towers on opposite ends, high enough that he could set a cookie sheet on top of them for a cooking pan. It took a while to toast the bread just right, and there were globs of burnt cheese all over the warped metal tray, but it was the best meal Sam had had all week.

Dean plated up another sandwich for Sam, sitting back beside him, somehow ending up a little closer than before, his arm propped behind him nearly brushing Sam’s. It felt almost like Dean’s arm was around Sam, without any contact at all. Something about it struck Sam as possessive. And something about _that_ made his stomach flutter.

“Show me Lupus again?” Sam said, neglecting his sandwich.

“I don’t think you can see it anymore,” Dean said. “Besides, the moon’s too bright.”

“Show me something else then,” Sam said.

Dean leaned in, pointing with his other hand. “That’s the Big Dipper.”

“No shit,” Sam said, looking at the constellation but more conscious of Dean. He smelled of stale sweat and faded detergent and butter, his hands greasy from his grilled cheese.

“Oh, _that_ one you know,” Dean said.

“And Orion,” Sam said, scanning the stars. “But I can’t find it.”

“That’s because you can’t see it this time of the year. But that guy?” Dean shifted closer and the hairs of his forearm tickled Sam’s elbow. His finger traced the lines of Ursa Major, down her tail toward another shape, kite-like. “That’s Boötes. He’s a hunter too.” Dean turned his head, so near Sam fought the knee-jerk urge to move back.

“Cool,” Sam said, all consonant then breath, half-facing Dean. He knew he should be searching the sky, finding something else for Dean to name.

Dean looked at him expectantly. His eyes kept wandering down to Sam’s lips. But Sam didn’t know what to say.

Flapping wings distracted Sam. A firefly landed on Dean’s shoulder. He leaned forward.

“Sam, what—” Dean started, watched Sam’s hand come toward him.

Sam scooped up the firefly, sat back and slowly opened his hand. Its wings flicked as if agitated, then its tail lit up, green-gold this close.

Dean peered into Sam’s cupped hands. “Oh,” he said. He reached out, covered part of Sam’s hand, shielding the firefly and further preventing its escape. “I remember catching these in a jar.”

The firefly crawled clumsily over the slopes of Sam’s palms, its legs soft as eyelashes. “I don’t remember that,” he said.

Dean let go, gently pulling at Sam’s hands to open them. The bug didn’t fly away at first, clambering up toward Sam’s finger, ruffling its wings again before taking off. They watched it disappear into the darkness. Sam saw a firefly glow bright in the direction it had gone, but wasn’t sure it was the same one.

“It was before,” Dean said, quiet.

Sam pictured the mother he knew from photographs, their dad and a little boy running around with a jar in his two small hands. There were a few pictures of Dean as a kid, from before the fire and Mom’s death, but Sam had difficulty reconciling that boy with the one next to him. In Sam’s earliest memories, Dean was already seven and, although he was still very young, he always seemed bigger to Sam, so grown up, more like Dad than a kid himself.

“It seems cruel now,” Dean said.

“What does?”

“Catching them in jars. Even with holes in the lids.” He rubbed Sam’s back in a quick, rough circle. “Maybe it’s good you missed out on that.” His grin came out half-done as if maybe it wasn’t good.

Sam’s finger itched to trace that half-grin, mold it into something certain and complete.

Dean licked his lips.

Sam looked down quickly, knowing Dean noticed him.

“Want me to warm that up?” Dean asked.

Sam looked at him. Dean’s eyes were in shadow. Sam wished he could see them; he couldn’t read him like this.

“The sandwich?” Dean said.

“Yeah. Okay.” Sam handed it to him. “Thanks.”

Dean’s fingers overlapped Sam’s as he took the plate. Sam thought he took a little longer moving away than was normal. But with his mind racing, everything else seemed slower. He drew in a deep breath and tried to let the fresh air and his surroundings calm him down.

They stayed out there for hours, watching the embers of the fire flash and spark up like imitations of fireflies. There was the white noise of crickets and a breeze carrying the smell of burning wood.

All of it was a background to Dean.

  
**______________________________**   


That night, Sam went to bed at the same time as Dean and didn’t wake up until an hour before he had to head in to work Monday night.

Sam did better in his first full week at Berkey’s. Still tired, he managed to acclimate to the hours enough that he dragged less at the end of the shift. He managed his sleep, lost the dark circles, and somehow it was enough for him to prove to Dean that he could handle the job. Dean looked skeptical, but said nothing more than, “All right, Sammy. But if it gets to be too much....”

The offer was there for Sam to take. Sam didn’t, but he felt the stress lessen simply knowing that offer and Dean were there.

The warring desires and worries in Sam’s head went away while he scurried around the diner. They returned when he jerked off in the shower, toyed with him when Dean came in each night and all Sam wanted to do was stay. But somewhere between Rocky Road and that truck stop between I-81 and I-64, the part of him that hated being away from Dean lost out to the part that told him how wrong he was, for wanting what he did, for thinking maybe Dean wanted something too. Billboards and speed postings were clearer signs than Dean’s lingering touches or his lack of self-consciousness when it came to nudity. What Sam had to do at the diner was clearer still, cut and dry, dependable.

But dependable — that described Dean too, in other ways, ones that seemed more important.

They had Sundays together. Supper around the fire pit became a ritual. It seemed like a consolation for all the days they spent separated. They made burgers and dogs, cooked baked beans in the can like cowboys, had s’mores for dessert.

Dean even shared his beer. On the fourth Sunday, he gave in and finally allowed Sam to try more than two, assessing his tolerance as slightly improved.

The third beer made Sam sleepy.

He didn’t complain when Dean slung an arm around him and walked him up to bed. Sam rested his head in the crook of Dean’s neck, let his nose slide up under his jaw when Dean deposited him on his bed, assuming it would seem like an accident.

“Night, lush,” Dean said, smoothing Sam’s bangs off his forehead.

Bent over, he looked like he might kiss Sam.

But he didn’t.

  
**______________________________**   


Five weeks in, Peg leaned over the counter while Sam picked up dishes to take back to Opie. “You got a girlfriend, Sam?” she asked.

He blushed and shook his head quickly.

“Well, Dana doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Peg said a little too loudly, given the way Dana’s head turned. Dana’s eyes went wide, and then she narrowed them at Peg.

It seemed to break the ice, at least for Dana. She cornered Sam on the way out.

“Are you going straight home?” she asked, walking past the rows of eighteen-wheelers to where the employees parked their cars.

“Yeah. You?” He only asked out of politeness.

“You tell me,” Dana said, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him behind a delivery truck. Reaching up on tiptoes, she pulled his face to hers and kissed him. Her lips were soft and slightly dry, no trace of waxy chapstick like the last girl he kissed, back before they came to Virginia, before Pennsylvania too.

Her tongue drew apart his lips, slipping inside.

Dana kissed like she knew what she was doing, which was more than Sam could say for himself. It was wet, felt good. And she was cute, with her short blond hair that she compulsively tucked behind her ears with their multiple piercings. But he stood up straight, out of her reach, said, “Sorry. Really tired.”

When he got into the car, he grasped the steering wheel as he adjusted himself in the seat, his dick half-hard in his pants. He wondered if he should have let things progress farther. Yet, despite his reaction, he realized he wasn’t interested. More than anything, he wanted to go home. Turning the key in the ignition, he thought about Dean. The encounter with Dana made him wonder if Dean had any interest in Toni or some other girl at the Haunted Monster Museum. Or maybe Dean had picked up a tourist — some hot college girl who wouldn’t mind accompanying him on his break. Not that any girls ever minded accompanying him.

Images crowded into Sam’s head of Dean pushing an anonymous girl up onto the counter of the bathroom sink, fitting himself between her spread legs, her head falling back to hit the wall just below the _Employees Must Wash Hands_ sign. Sam remembered the sight of Dean’s naked backside that one morning at the house, thought of how it would look thrusting hard and fast, how the muscles would clench. Sam wondered if he would swivel his hips the way he’d seen a guy do in a porno once, making the girl beneath him moan. But girls in pornos were always moaning; even Sam knew that much. Then he remembered something he’d heard from Rachel back in Emmaus. Just to get a rise out of them, she’d told Sam and Kevin about sticking her finger _back there_ when she and her boardwalk boyfriend had sex. Sam pictured a girl doing that to Dean, long painted fingernail disappearing into that tiny hole, not seeming like it should be able to fit.

Sam almost came in his pants.

He considered pulling off to the side of the road. But even though there was nothing around but trees and the highway had less traffic overnight, he couldn’t bear the thought of jerking off out in the open.

He waited until he was home and in bed, limbs rigid as he tried to keep the bedsprings from squeaking. Stopping when he heard Dean get up to piss was excruciating. He held his breath, not letting it out until he heard Dean flush the toilet, hoping the sound of water would cover any noise he made.

Reaching down, he felt the tightness of his balls, tugged on them. Then he slipped his fingers back, stroking along his perineum. He moved his middle finger tentatively toward his hole. Light hairs surrounded the pad of his fingertip as he felt the wrinkled indentation. His nerve endings lit up, a fleeting thrill coursing through him. Sam tried to push in, but it was too dry and he didn’t get far. The thought of sticking that same finger in his mouth disgusted him, so he sucked on his ring finger, swirling his tongue around it until it was coated in wetness. When he tried this time, his finger sank in deeper, to the first knuckle. Inside him, it felt larger than it really was. And he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He pulled out and pushed back in, the thin skin clinging. Neglecting his swollen dick and aching balls, he kept up the simple motion, in and out. The muscles of his arms strained as he twisted to get more of his finger inside. It seemed to take forever to get past the first knuckle. But when he did, his finger hooked and he felt something spongy, felt even more of a rush of pleasure — not the same as when he rubbed under the head of his dick or even the same as when he rolled his balls, but just as intoxicating. He couldn’t stop touching it, stroking and stroking, letting it build in him.

Suddenly, he came with a shout.

He froze, wanting to ride out the sensation, but holding himself still.

Sam expected to hear Dean get up, just knew there would be a knock at his door asking him if he was okay.

What Sam didn’t anticipate was the muffled moan that came through the walls — not from the direction of Dean’s room, but right outside in the hall.

Sam stared at the doorknob.

A minute later, he heard Dean’s door shut, quiet but not quiet enough with no other sounds to mask it.

Sam rolled over, wiped his hand on the sheets and didn’t fall asleep for hours.

  
**______________________________**   


Sam had delirious dreams of fireflies coming out of his mouth. They crawled out, one after the other, little legs dancing over his tongue. His belly burned with warmth, and he knew they must be coming from there.

Lifting his shirt, he found that his stomach looked the same as always.

Then Dean’s hand was there, stroking over his skin.

Sam started glowing, green-yellow light flaring under Dean’s fingers. Everywhere Dean touched him, Sam lit up. Light streaked from his abdomen to the base of his throat, where Dean wrapped his hand around him and leaned toward him, his mouth open.

The last thing Sam remembered before he woke was fireflies pouring into Dean’s mouth, Dean eating their glow.

  
**______________________________**   


Thursday of that same week, Dad called while Dean was at work.

He left a blunt message about being in Beloit, Wisconsin, he and Bobby having met back up after Knoxville proved fruitless. There was a string of male murders — an uncle and nephew, a grandfather and grandson and the grandson’s friend and that friend’s father — and more crop destruction on a direct path as the crow flies from Greencastle, Indiana to Beloit.

Dean stopped Sam before he left for work to let him listen to the message.

That was it — Dad’s goodbye, as usual, unspoken. He left off with a: “Call you when I have news.” As if all they cared about was the hunt.

  
**______________________________**   


Nevertheless, the hunt was what Dean and Sam talked about that Sunday as Dean heated up leftover chili on his makeshift stove over the fire pit.

Sam pointed out how Dad was right about the púca heading north. He wondered aloud about the related males and if it meant anything.

“I wish he’d given us the names. We could do some research. There might be a connection.”

Pausing with the plastic bottle of cayenne over the pot, Dean arched his eyebrow at Sam. “You itching for a hunt?”

Sam sat back on his hands, looked up at the darkening sky. “No, no.” Stretching his neck, he pressed his cheek against his shoulder. “You?”

“No.” Dean stirred the chili. The smell of onion and garlic and spice made the air seem heavier.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean lied a lot. But Sam believed him. “I kind of like it out here. Nice to take a break, you know?”

Crouching low to get the beer, Dean grabbed two and handed one to Sam. Before eating, that was new.

Sam fiddled with the cap, loosened but still sitting askew over the lip. “You seeing anyone at work? Toni?”

Sitting down with his arms over his knees, Dean said, “If I was, do you think I’d be here now?” He took a long pull of the beer, looking out past the fire toward the trees.

“She likes you though, right?”

Dean shrugged.

“And you’re not hitting that?” Sam cringed; it wasn’t his kind of phrase.

Dean snorted. “No. I’m not ‘hitting that.’”

Not done with the topic and wanting to see where it would lead, Sam sat up and said, “So you’d rather hang out with your kid brother? You’re an idiot.”

Buttons not pushed, Dean hummed his agreement. The bottle dangled between his bent legs, his fingers forked around the neck. Sam watched it swing back and forth, amber liquid sloshing, cast orange in the firelight. Not looking back, Dean said, “You interested in her? Want me to hook you two up?”

Swallowing down a sip of his own beer, the question made Sam cough. “No.”

“Is there a girl at the diner?”

“There are lots of girls at the diner,” Sam said.

“You know what I mean.”

Sam did. He thought of Dana, who’d given up on him after that kiss in the parking lot. She watched him sometimes, Sam noticed, might even give him another chance if he showed any inclination. But he had none.

His eyes fixed on Dean — the curve of his shoulders, the way the meat of his forearms pushed out over the tops of his knees. Dean fidgeted with his bottle, his fingertip dipping into it, playing around the lip.

It had been five days since Sam had come with just his finger in himself. He hadn’t tried again since then, jacking himself off quick and efficient instead. But seeing Dean toy absently at the bottle brought it back, sense memory shock-bright. Moving forward, he drew his elbows together over his legs to hide his erection. He took a sip when Dean did. The dryness of the alcohol left his throat feeling raspy, so it barely came out when he said, “There’s no one.”

Dean looked off toward the sunset, blues bleeding through the fast-fading reds and yellows. “No one here but us,” Dean said.

Sam realized it had been so long since Dean had asked him about the girls at the diner that maybe he’d forgotten the question, thought Sam was talking about something else. But he was right. Mrs. Pollack was down the road. But that road, from their long drive, might as well have been miles away. It nearly was. The woods stretched on and on, deep and dense out there in the country. Yet, with the tree line close to the house, it seemed to cloister them, a barrier against the rest of the world — all the evil things, all the good. Above them, the sky domed the earth, an illusory protection. As the stars became visible, Sam thought of the span from here to each one of those distant lights. He wondered which ones still burned, which were ghosts of dead stars. So many stars, so many light years and millennia beyond count. It made Sam feel small, an insignificant speck that would burn out quicker, leaving no light by which someone might steer.

But it was okay. He watched the fireflies going in and out, and knew it was all okay.

“Dean,” he said, wanting to tell him.

Dean was already looking at him.

“Sammy,” Dean said. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and moved closer, pushed his forehead into Dean’s arm, shifted and pressed his cheek into the space between his shoulder and chest.

“Sam, what is it?”

Dean’s lips were right near Sam’s nose. Sam tipped his head up and let his nose brush against Dean’s mouth. Before Dean could back away, Sam stretched further. His lips rested against Dean’s. Not kissing, not even sharing the breath they were both holding.

Sam looked up. Dean’s eyes were open, blinking too much. His eyelashes blurred in Sam’s vision.

“Okay,” Sam said against Dean’s lips, and he kissed him.

Light, soft skin against his own guided Sam on, giving him the want of more. Outside was dry; he could feel the tiny creases. Inside was silken, wet. He slipped his tongue against the slick row of Dean’s bottom teeth.

It should have surprised him when Dean kissed back. But it didn’t.

Sam closed his eyes when Dean did. Touch overtook sight.

He knew what stars and trees looked like. This part of Dean was new.

The chili burned in its pot while they explored each other’s mouths, traced the lines of each other’s necks, tangled legs until they hooked around, found the places where they fit. Once finding those, they found more.

They lay in the grass, grown so tall above them it could hide them. The fire cracked and popped. The insects buzzed. The sky stayed clear with a waning moon taking its time to cross it, trailing from one end to the next.

And Dean and Sam took their time, moving slow together, making their two small lives into something bigger, unnamable, seeming like everything. Everything Sam could want, and nothing he could ever be on his own.

  
**______________________________**   


It took another two weeks for Dad and Bobby to catch the púca and destroy it.

Over the phone, Dad told Dean that all of the victims had been the ancestors of Civil War veterans. When they caught up with it near Miller, South Dakota, they saw a gray horse standing in front of it, blocking its way. The gray horse disappeared as soon as Bobby began the Gaelic spell to send the púca back from wherever it’d come. Sam wanted to ask if the gray horse had had a black mane like Traveller’s, but didn’t want to bother Dad with questions, knew better than to do that anyway. Besides, he’d made up his mind that it was, hoped that Traveller was back on the streets of Lexington, home, where he belonged.

And, really, Sam felt a little weird about alerting Dad to his presence, even though it was late morning and there was no way he could know that Sam and Dean were still in bed, let alone together.

Dad asked if there was any news there. Translated, Sam knew that meant: was there anything to hunt?

“Nothing here, sir,” Dean said.

“All right,” Sam heard Dad say. “Meet up with me in Fort Wayne. Heard about something while I was passing through the state.”

What it was, they wouldn’t find out until they got there, Dad having exceeded his quota of details for that phone call.

Dean put the phone down, but Sam kept close. Sam rested his ear against Dean’s. “How long until we have to leave?” he asked.

He felt Dean breathe in slowly, breathe out. “Dad has farther to drive. I’d say we can wait until tomorrow.”

Sam smiled, though the relief was small. He tucked his face into Dean’s neck, let his lips open against the sweat-sticky skin.

“Last chance to see Natural Bridge,” Dean said.

Sam hummed his _no_ against Dean.

“The zoo?”

“No,” Sam said clearly this time.

“We could go to Lexington and throw fruit at Stonewall’s grave?”

It figured Dean would bring that up again. A week ago, they’d gone into Lexington for groceries and had finally taken a walk through the cemetery, checking for anything out of the ordinary. They’d found pieces of fruit on the fence around Jackson’s grave, three lemons in a triangle formation on the ground in front of the memorial statue. Dean had been sure it meant something. It turned out it meant that, during his lifetime, Stonewall Jackson enjoyed fruit. That tourists wasted good food on a dead man had no supernatural meaning behind it. Dean had been disappointed.

“I don’t think the locals would appreciate that,” Sam said. He curved his fingers around Dean’s side, the heel of his hand nestled in the small of Dean’s back. He didn’t want to let go. But he suggested, “We could go outside.”

“S’mores for supper?” Dean said, drawing a line through the hairs on Sam’s belly.

“Yeah, that’s healthy.”

“Whatever,” Dean said, nudging Sam in the shoulder.

“Okay,” pushing back.

Dean stared out of the westward window, the one over the little backyard where Sam had built the fire pit. “It looks like it might rain,” he said.

Sam thought of the fireflies that probably wouldn’t fly around, lighting up the sky if it rained. He thought of the stars they wouldn’t be able to see. If the rain was heavy enough, they wouldn’t be able to keep the fire going.

Still, he turned in Dean’s arms, kissed a freckle by the corner of his eye and said, “I don’t mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> • For raynemaiden and inspired by the prompt she gave me:
> 
>   
> _Sam and Dean fall in love slowly during the long and hot summer they spend being mostly on their own. First summer Sam gets to drink beer with his older brother. Fireflies. Sweat. Watching the stars. Languid, almost dreamy, smut not necessary, this one is all about the characters, relationships, human emotion, and slice of life portrayal. Very description driven, I want to be able to feel it._   
> 
> 
> • Betas: kmousie, lustmordred, and zelda-zee.
> 
> • Title taken from the song “Holocene” by Bon Iver.
> 
> Justin Vernon’s lyrics tend to be dense and impressionistic. But my personal interpretation of that line is the realization of one’s smallness in the universe, like that first moment you look up at the sky and become overwhelmed by the size and scope of space. To me, it’s positive — a broadening of awareness that reduces the ego. And I think it’s mainly positive for Sam in this as well. Put together with the last line of the song (which may not be how Vernon intended the lines to be read), the title line does seem to suggest the benefit and beauty of new perception: “and at once I knew I was not magnificent ...  I could see for miles, miles, miles.”
> 
> Blah, blah, blah. Enough over-analyzing. Just [listen to the song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWcyIpul8OE).
> 
> By the way, I listened to this song and the entire self-titled record so many times while writing this fic that I should be sick of it now. The fact that I’m not is either a sign of mental unbalance or a testament to the music’s brilliance. You decide.
> 
> • Most of the places mentioned here are real. Although I tried to keep the details of these locations as true-to-life as possible, some liberties were taken. Also, I attempted to view this portion of western VA through the eyes of a teenaged Sam Winchester. Any questionably negative descriptions about Natural Bridge, Lexington, etc. were written with that in mind and no disrespect toward those towns, their residents, or their attractions is intended. In fact, I’d recommend visiting. But I do not recommend actually throwing fruit at Stonewall Jackson’s memorial statue. However, I’m sure the squirrels would not mind a (non-vandalizing) offering of fruit.
> 
> • [Lexington, VA.](http://www.lexingtonvirginia.com)
> 
> • [The real Berky's Restaurant.](http://www.leehi.com/dan%20html%20file/berky%27s.html) Not sure why I changed the spelling. I just liked it better with another e.
> 
> • [Traveller, General Robert E. Lee’s horse.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traveller_\(horse\))
> 
> • [A basic overview of the púca.](http://irelandmythsstoriespictures.blogspot.com/2009/11/puca-or-pooka-puka-phouka.html)
> 
> • [Some background information on the constellation Lupus.](http://stardate.org/radio/program/2006-05-01) Plus, [an image.](http://www.allthesky.com/constellations/lupus/constell.html) [It doesn’t really look like a penis](http://www.topastronomer.com/StarCharts/Constellations/Lupus.php), as Dean suggests in the fic, unless you connect the top two stars, squint your eyes and maybe are a little bit horny.
> 
> • While [Boötes](http://www.utahskies.org/deepsky/constellations/bootes.html) is most commonly known as the Herdsman, Dean is correct about [the constellation’s mythological connection to hunting](http://www.seasky.org/constellations/constellations-june.html), not only according to Greek mythology but according to [Native American mythology](http://www2.ufrsd.net/staffwww/stefanl/myths/ursamajor.htm) as well.


End file.
